


A Sound As Of Devouring Flame

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Bloodplay, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, M/M, Non Consensual, Underage Sex, Violence, Werewolf Sex, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the full moon falls on All Hallows’ Eve and death is closer than usual, a werewolf feels the irresistible urge to mate and hunt with his maker. Remus Lupin is no exception, however much he may resent it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sound As Of Devouring Flame

“No! Stop! Please, don’t hurt me! Don’t . . .”

Remus can’t listen, can’t care. All that matters is the throbbing of his pulse, is the taste of salty sweat, and the delicate skin under his teeth – so easy to break, and just beneath it, sweet, coppery blood.

Despite his pleas, the boy is clinging to him, fingers digging deep into Remus’s back, hard cocks rubbing against each other. Remus can take him here and now, can maul him and fuck him; it doesn’t matter that they both don’t want it, that Remus will hate himself for it, that the boy can’t be older than eighteen – Remus needs it, and the boy needs it too, just as much as Remus had when he’d been his age, hardly more than a child . . . All of a sudden, that thought breaks the spell; Remus feels dizzy, stomach heaving with nausea, and the world blurs before his eyes.

When he comes to, he’s on the ground, a puddle of steaming vomit next to him. For a while, all he can do is take deep breaths, trying to calm down. What happened? Looking up, he sees the boy sit on the ground as well, just a few feet away. He’s panting, blond hair tousled, wide eyes staring at Remus warily.

“Damn . . .”

Remus wipes his mouth with his sleeve and scoots over to him – the boy flinches, but doesn’t try to get away.

“Are you hurt?”

Slowly, the boy raises his hand to feel his throat where Remus’s teeth had been. Finding nothing, he shakes his head. Thank Merlin for small mercies. Remus has no doubt that _somebody_ will hurt him before nightfall, but at least it’s not him. He’ll content himself with anyone as long as it’s not a kid.

At the thought of what is to come, his eyes automatically wander to the large cave at the other side of the clearing, and now he remembers what happened. He’d been hiding at the edge of the clearing, watching the others arrive, stalling as much as possible. Then the kid had appeared, and just as Remus, he’d been hesitant to enter the cave, staying close enough to Remus’s hiding place for Remus to smell the fear rolling off him in waves. It had been a struggle to not attack, to not simply take what he needed, and at some point, Remus had snapped. 

“Do you enjoy it?”

The question startles him, and he turns to find himself still being watched. There’s a mixture of curiosity and fear on the boy’s pale face.

Appalled, Remus barely manages to bite back a sharp answer; instead, he sighs and gets to his feet, then holds out his hand to the kid to help him up. For some moments, it doesn’t seem as if the offer will be accepted, but then a trembling hand is placed in his.

The boy is shaking all over, Remus realises when, much to his surprise, the thin body presses against his side, the boy’s eyes now fixed on the cave.

“You know?” Remus himself hadn’t known back then– he’d had no idea right until the very end. 

The boy nods, eyes never leaving the cave. Somehow, Remus’s arm has sneaked its way around bony shoulders.

“Better come here than hurt someone innocent.” The boy’s voice is shaking as much as his body, but Remus is impressed nonetheless. It had taken him a hard lesson to understand the same.

“You’re right,” he says, trying to sound reassuring when all he feels like doing is to rip off the other one’s shirt and sink his teeth into smooth, white flesh. “It’s the only option. You’re very brave – I’m not sure I’d have come if I’d known when I was your age.” The truth is, Remus would have run as far as possible. “And no, I don’t enjoy it. At least not completely. Part of me does, and part of you will as well, but I hate it just as much.”

“Can it be you?” Now the boy turns to look up at Remus. His eyes are bright blue; Remus hadn’t noticed before. “I don’t want it to be someone who likes this. If he takes neither of us, then can you . . .”

Inwardly, Remus curses the kid, but he knows he can’t refuse him. Not when he’s being asked like this, not when it’s so clear that – for no good reason at all – this boy seems to suddenly trust him.

“All right.”

“Thank you.”

They have to go inside now, though; the urge is becoming overwhelming. If they hesitate too long, Remus won’t be able to pull himself together, and he doesn’t want to think of the consequences. This is not yet his choice to make. The boy doesn’t resist when he is led over the grass towards the cave, but when Remus pushes him into the dusty twilight, he clings to the older man’s robes as if Remus could protect him from the glowing eyes and the figures lurking in the shadows.

“There you are, little wolf.” It’s a raspy purr right behind them. Remus can feel the boy freeze, then his fingers are pried loose from Remus’s arm and the lithe form is pushed away. Remus closes his eyes and, bracing himself, turns around to bare his throat to the looming shadow behind him.

.-.-.-.-.

Eighteen-year-old Remus is close to wetting himself with fear. He’s in a dark cave lit by just a few flickering torches, and instead of being alone as he’d expected, he’s surrounded by at least a dozen men and women, all older than him, eyes gleaming with a vicious, amber light. They stare at him with a hunger that makes him fear they want to tear the flesh off his bones and devour him.

The biggest man is the worst one; he takes Remus by the shoulders, his large hands closing around the boy’s biceps in a bruising grip. He grins, showing sharp, yellow teeth. 

“I feared you wouldn’t come, little wolf.”

Remus gags when the man’s breath hits him – he imagines he can smell death and rotting flesh. But despite the disgust, despite his fear, there is a strange feeling that is more terrifying than the threat coming from the strangers around him. 

Remus wants this. He wants to be here, _wants_ this man to touch him – and just as he thinks it, the man moves one of his hands from Remus’s arm to his groin, making him yelp in shock and buck against the touch at the same time. The man leans in closer, and instinctively, Remus leans back his head and closes his eyes.

Hot breath hits his throat; Remus is trembling with fear and arousal, arching even closer into the hand on his cock. The pressure of teeth on his throat makes him groan, he’s painfully hard, and suddenly, all that he can think is that he needs this man, needs him _now_ , needs to be touched and fucked and _hurt_ , needs to bite and claw and taste blood. 

Confused, Remus tries to think around the haze of fear and arousal – he isn’t even gay! Nothing is making sense.

Then the teeth and the hand on his groin are gone, and to his embarrassment, he can’t hold back a whimper at the loss. The tall man chuckles.

“Soon, little wolf. Don’t worry. We’ll get there soon.” He takes a step back, though never letting go of Remus’s arm, and glares at the others. “The little one’s mine. Do what you want, but don’t disturb us or you’ll regret it.”

They all look disappointed, and he chuckles again.

“They’re jealous of you,” he tells Remus. “They all want to be in your place, even those who despise me. Just this night, when the full moon falls on All Hallows Eve, they can’t care that they hate me because I turned them into werewolves. Tonight, even the most pathetic of them want their maker to claim them.”

It’s only then that Remus realises who this is and why he came here. Suddenly, everything makes perfect sense.

.-.-.-.-.

“I missed you last time.” The words are growled against his throat, and Remus arches closer, wanting to feel teeth. “So eager,” Fenrir murmurs. “I take it my little wolf missed me as well.”

Remus is tired of this game; he needs it to start now. It’s not his place to take action yet, but he does nevertheless, wrapping his arms around the other man. Fenrir seems inclined to choose Remus anyway, and if he does, at least the boy will be spared this. Anyone will be better than Fenrir tonight – and yet, nobody will. Remus hates him, but he wants him to himself, wants their maker, not a substitute in the form of another werewolf.

Finally, Fenrir bares his teeth, biting just hard enough to break skin. Remus hisses under his breath, squirming, hands curling into claws and scratching at the coarse fabric of Fenrir’s robes. The man’s scent of decay wafts over him, and he drinks it in, wants to throw up and bury his nose in it to smell more, all of it, until all other thoughts die away. This is the real thing, and he feels as if waiting just one more minute will make him snap. How he could have assumed last time that a human woman would suffice is beyond him.

“I’ll take him,” Fenrir declares, clutching Remus to him. A collective sigh of disappointment echoes through the room – from the corner of his eye, Remus can see the blond boy stare at them in despair. _I’m sorry_ , he mouths, and it’s true for a moment, but when Fenrir’s grip on him tightens, it becomes meaningless. Nothing matters anymore but the two of them.

.-.-.-.-.

Remus’s breathing is coming quick and shallow; he can’t take his eyes off Fenrir. The naked man is a wall of muscle, arms and chest littered with thick, silvery scars. Remus is naked as well – he hadn’t dared to contradict when Fenrir had ordered him to undress.

They’re alone in a small cave deep in the rock; Fenrir took him here, away from all the others. It makes the boy half insane with fright, and yet oddly proud. He was chosen. But the pride dwindles quickly when Fenrir stalks closer, making Remus take some steps back until he feels the cool stone wall behind him. He curses himself for his idiocy – why did he give in to the urge to run away tonight? He could be safe in his parents’ cellar!

Then Fenrir is over him, and all he can think of doing is to offer his throat again. Fenrir bites deep into the side of Remus’s neck where it connects with the shoulder, and the pain combined with the scent of his own blood does away with all doubts and fear. Within seconds Remus is hard again and clinging to the older man, attacking him just as viciously with teeth and nails. His head is slammed against the wall, making him see stars. Remus growls and pushes hard, they tumble over, Remus landing on top of Fenrir, who grins, teeth dripping red, eyes shining with violence and lust.

“You’ve got spirit, little wolf.”

Remus barely hears the words – all he can focus on is the bobbing Adam’s apple right in front of him, and then it’s he who’s at Fenrir’s throat, teeth sinking into stubbly skin, hips thrusting rhythmically as he rubs against the other’s hard stomach.

.-.-.-.-.

Remus screams as Fenrir’s huge cock slams into him, ripping him open. He’s on his hands and knees, warm blood running down his shoulders from where Fenrir’s teeth are buried deep in his nape, and when the other man starts thrusting, Remus can feel through the cloud of pain how his cock becomes slick with blood as well.

He’s hurting all over, covered in scratches, bruises, and bites, the sickening, delicious taste of blood in his mouth, cock aching for release. His body moves in sync with the one above him, arching back into the hard thrusts as he screams out his lust and humiliation. _This_ is what he needs – pain and hate and violence, a powerful body to struggle against, to hurt and be hurt without thought or consideration, not the soft curves of a pregnant wife at home or the pathetic adoration of a werewolf admirer. Not like last time.

.-.-.-.-.

“And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

Remus can’t help but ask again, although by now he’s fidgeting with restlessness, hardly able to concentrate.

“I’m sure, don’t worry. I know what can happen, and it’s fine.” The woman smiles and takes his hand into hers – the touch is soft and gentle, and Remus grits his teeth at how wrong it feels. “I want this,” she reassures, large brown eyes looking up at him adoringly.

It’s crazy, but at the same time, once you think about it, it makes perfect sense. For every Muggle who hates witches and wizards, there’s one who admires them; for each human who fears vampires, there’s one who wants nothing more than for them to feast on him – and so, for each person who despises werewolves, there must be someone like her.

Still, it’s absurd that a business like this should exist, even at Knockturn Alley, a place where werewolves and their admirers can meet and have sex, where werewolves can live out their violent side with people who want to be hurt by them, who sign a binding contract that they alone take the risk for whatever happens to them. Of course, there’s magic monitoring their vital signs to make sure they won’t be fatally wounded, but other than that, anything goes.

“Let’s start, then,” the woman suggests and begins unbuttoning her robes slowly. Still wondering if this was a good idea, Remus does the same. But it’s better than running the risk of being chosen by Fenrir again, that’s what he told himself when he came here, and despite the nagging feeling that this is not right, that he’s missing out on something, he clings to that thought. Anything is better than Fenrir.

The dark curtains are drawn shut, and the candles paint flickering shadows on the woman’s slim, naked body. Unlike most werewolves, she has no scars, and it adds to the feeling of wrongness. It’s she who approaches Remus, running her fingers over his chest and arms and pressing soft lips against his. She smells of barely awakened arousal, of soap and sweet perfume. Remus complies, although it’s not what he needs – they’ll come to that later, and he owes her that much. But when the kiss drags on endlessly, all the while staying soft and pleasant, her fingers playing with his hair, he finally pushes her away in frustration.

“That’s not what we’re here for!” He didn’t intend to snap at her, but he’s been waiting far too long – just a few hours until the moon will rise, and by then, he has to be gone.

She looks surprised, but then smiles again. “Then why don’t you start?” She stands on the tips of her toes and teasingly bites his neck – it’s all Remus needs to be driven over the edge.

Later, he doesn’t know how they ended up on the dingy bed, doesn’t remember what precisely he did to split her lip, bruise her arms, and to change her sweet scent into the heavy stink of sour sweat and blood. It’s better, though, incomparably better, as is the flicker of fear in her eyes. She’s trembling under him, and he relishes it as he begins to lick away the trickle of blood all the way down from her neck to her navel. Soon, he’ll be hunting, soon, he’ll rip flesh with sharp fangs, will gorge himself on dead meat and blood. The thought makes his cock throb with pain, and he bites down hard on her soft stomach. She shrieks and starts sobbing. It’s perfect.

“Please ,” she hiccups, and Remus looks up to find her staring at him with a pleading expression on the tear-streaked face. “Please, stop!”

For a moment, Remus is close to agreeing; there’s something in his dizzy mind that tells him he doesn’t want to do anything against her will. But she’s so beautiful like this, scared and crying, one eye swelling shut – that sight and her smell make any thinking impossible. Remus doesn’t answer; instead he holds her down by the shoulders to keep her in place. She struggles to get free, which arouses him even more, and he slaps her in the face, making her head fly to the side. She’s sobbing stronger now, but still tries to resist, tensing and squirming under him. He entangles one of his hands in her long hair and pulls abruptly, jerking her head around as he lifts himself just enough to make space for her to turn on her stomach. It takes a short fight before she’s in the right position, and he pulls her hair a few more times just to hear her sobs turn into anguished howls.

When he enters her roughly, she lets out a gut-wrenching scream. Remus loves it. She doesn’t stop as he goes on, and he loses himself in a haze of touch and smell and sound until he comes with a roar and collapses on her. He can’t tell how long it took; it could have been minutes or an hour, but he feels blissfully spent, he’s panting, and slowly, the bruises and scratches she gave him start aching again. It’s nothing against what Fenrir did years ago, but he suppresses the thought. This was good. It’s enough. It has to be.

Finally, he rolls off her, and it’s only then that he notices she’s stopped screaming and isn’t moving. Fear kicks in immediately, his heart clenches tightly, all intoxication gone. For the first time since they started, Remus looks at the woman with sober eyes, and what he sees makes him feel nothing but disgust with himself.

She’s unconscious, her black hair wet and sticking to her face and neck. Under the sheen of cold sweat and blood smeared all over her, her skin is unhealthily pale with shock. There are bites and bruises everywhere, her right eye has now completely disappeared under the swelling, and three long, deep scratches are disfiguring her face, reaching all the way from the left eye over the nose to the neck. Remus raises his hands and finds clumps of flesh under the fingernails on the right. Nausea is welling up, and he has to swallow hard to keep it at bay. She’ll forever keep those scars – magic can do nothing against wounds inflicted by werewolves.

This was a mistake, Remus understands that now. He hurt this woman - _You raped her!_ – because he was a coward. A selfish coward who couldn’t take the idea of sex with another man, and possibly Fenrir again. For he doesn’t know how long, he sits next to her and watches her, watches the blood dry and crust on her skin, watches her chest rise and fall with weak breaths. Every now and then, she shivers, but he doesn’t even think of spreading the threadbare covers over her. He should leave – he wanted to hunt tonight to get out the residual violence, but he can’t move. He sits and watches her until the spells monitoring them register the rise of the moon and Apparate him into the doorless cell under the establishment. 

That night, Remus rages at himself worse than ever before, and when the proprietor gets him out in the morning, he immediately brings him to St. Mungo’s, where Remus stays for two weeks, unable to leave bed.

.-.-.-.-.

The transformation begins when Fenrir is still fucking him, like it did all those years ago, blinding pain spurring them on as bones break and shift, hair and claws grow, and the teeth in Remus’s nape turn into fangs, burying even deeper.

Just as it’s over, Fenrir comes, and immediately he pulls out and starts attacking Remus again. He’s a huge grey beast, much bigger than Remus, and stronger as well. For a while, they’re a raging whirlwind of fur and teeth before Fenrir manages to throw Remus on his back and, once again, threatens Remus’s throat with his fangs. This is the sign that it’s over, and Remus holds still, waiting for the other wolf to let go.

Eventually, Fenrir does, and Remus gets to his feet, legs shaking, flanks heaving. He’s exhausted, but the night is young, and there’s more to come. When they leave through the bigger cave, they see they’re last; all the others are gone already. 

Dark clouds race over the night sky, covering and uncovering the full moon in irregular intervals. A sharp wind is blowing and carries the scent of prey, rustling the leaves of bushes and trees. The night is perfect. Fenrir throws his head back and howls, Remus follows, and from all over the forest, the others answer. Then Fenrir is off, dashing through the undergrowth between the trees, Remus never leaving his side. They run for what feels like hours, and the adrenaline and the wind pulling at their fur wash away any weakness. 

Abruptly, Fenrir halts, and Remus does the same. The huge wolf is sniffing the air, and when Remus copies him, he smells prey close by. With a single glance, Fenrir conveys his intentions and plan, then they’re moving again, slowly, silently, against the wind, to the edge of a small clearing where Remus can see a small hind grazing, every now and then raising her head and flicking her ears watchfully.

Whatever made her distrustful, Remus will never know, but all of a sudden, she starts and flees, Fenrir and Remus close on her heels. It doesn’t take long – she’s old and weak – but Remus relishes it nevertheless. He’s never felt more alive before, and when he slams his fangs into their prey’s shoulder while Fenrir tears out her throat, his world consists of nothing but the thrill of the hunt and his blood rushing in his ears like all-consuming fire. The hind goes down and Remus begins ripping off flesh mindlessly – it’s like the sex all over again, just as sweet and violent, and he goes on long after his stomach is full.

Finally, he can’t continue and takes some steps back, slumping down on the ground in exhaustion. A look at the ravaged carcass tells him that Fenrir isn’t done yet; his head has disappeared into the hind’s belly up to the shoulders, drenching his fur in blood.

Remus watches him for a while until Fenrir, too, has to stop. They leave the carcass for the scavengers, then, and slowly trot into the direction of the cave. Remus’s previous energy is gone; now, all he wants is to curl up and sleep, and once they arrive, that’s what they do. Remus’s snout is buried in Fenrir’s fur, and the musky scent follows him into dreams of more hunting and slain prey.

.-.-.-.-.

In the morning, Remus awakes to find Fenrir gone. He groans as he sits up; his head is aching murderously, his limbs are stiff, his jaw is hurting, and he doesn’t want to think of the countless other pains all over his body. It takes him a while to get to his feet, and once he’s standing, he looks down at himself with disgust. Naked, he stumbles through the tunnels and the big, now empty cave towards a nearby brook where he washes off the stinking mixture of sweat, blood, and semen that has dried on his skin overnight. How he can go home after tonight eludes him - after doing this, how can he face or even touch Tonks? Not only did he betray her, he did so with a Death Eater. There's a war, Fenrir might yet kill one of his friends, and that he had to do this, that it was out of his control, doesn't matter. She can never know, nobody can. He feels pathetic.

Back at the cave, he wants to go to find and put on his clothes, but something’s holding him back. He hadn’t heard it before, but there’s a weak, sniffling noise coming from a dark corner. Remus frowns – who could . . . but then it hits him.

The boy.

Clothes gone from his mind, he turns and follows the noise until he finds him hidden behind a ledge, clutching his torn robes between his legs and chest, skin still wet with water and broken out in gooseflesh, sobbing softly to himself. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s not alone.

Remus sighs, crouches down beside him, and carefully touches a shaking shoulder. The boy jerks back, head snapping up to look at Remus with unseeing eyes still spilling over with tears.

“It’s me,” Remus tries. “Remember, we met . . . before this. Outside.”

It takes several moments before there’s a reaction, but then, to Remus’s relief, the empty expression leaves his eyes and is replaced with recognition. He’s not prepared for what happens next, however: the boy throws himself at Remus and sobs into his chest, clinging to him as if for dear life. Remus hisses as thin fingers dig into bruised skin, but he doesn’t push him away. He simply wraps his arms around the bony torso, being mindful not to touch where teeth left their painful marks.

They sit like this for a while, until the boy’s sobs get quieter and then die down completely. He’s not trembling anymore, and his skin is now warm to the touch. Finally, he looks up at Remus, a small frown on his face as if he was trying to figure out something. Then he leans in and kisses Remus. At first, Remus is too surprised to react, but when he realises what’s happening, he gently pries the boy off him, making him look at him again.

“Let me,” the boy whispers, and now he looks just as desperate as he had the previous evening. “Please.”

“No.” Remus has a wife, and he’s not interested in men, not even when they’re this young and pretty. Tears gather again in those blue eyes, and Remus wishes he’d gone straight for his clothes.

“Do you even like men?” he asks half-heartedly.

The boy shakes his head, clinging tighter. “But it doesn’t matter.” Remus hates how convinced he sounds. “I can’t . . . I don’t want to think of what happened when I think of the first time I . . .” The boy trails off and lowers his eyes, defeated. “Please, let it be you.” 

Remus can’t find the words to deny him, although he knows he has to. But instead, he cups the boy’s cheek and makes him raise his head, then claims his mouth in a soft kiss. 

They’re slow and gentle, caresses ghosting over damaged skin, and Remus makes it a point to brush his lips over each and every injury. Reluctantly, their touches wander deeper, until they’re both flushed and panting, the boy’s cheek pressed against Remus’s chest. Remus doesn’t want to go any further – they can take it to the end like this – but the boy lets go and turns away from Remus, positioning himself on all fours. He seems to sense the older man’s uneasiness, because he looks back over his shoulder with that pleading expression Remus has come to fear already. After the way he abandoned him yesterday, doesn’t he owe him this much?

The boy gasps when Remus enters him – he stretched him as best as possible and he’s trying to be careful, but the injured membranes don’t heal overnight.

“All right?”

The boy nods, and Remus wraps his arms around him, holding him firmly as he begins to thrust in a slow, gentle rhythm. They go for a while, but when it becomes clear that neither of them will come, they stop and Remus pulls out. It’s awkward, they can’t really look at each other, and the only solution Remus finds is to let the boy curl up against him once more. 

Finally, the boy sighs deeply.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “This . . . it will be a better memory.”

“That’s good.” Remus wishes he could give some useful advice, but he can think of only one thing to say. “Don’t try to use someone else next time. No matter how bad it was last night, don’t inflict this on anyone uninvolved.”

“I won’t.” There’s a short silence. “Can you tell me your name?”

Remus hesitates. “Joseph,” he replies in the end.

The boy says nothing for a while, then snuggles closer. “I like that.”


End file.
